


Don't Let Me Be the Last to Know

by awkwardsoviet



Category: L.A. Noire
Genre: Angst, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Minor Violence, Period-Typical Homophobia, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-13
Updated: 2019-03-13
Packaged: 2019-10-27 04:49:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,998
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17760077
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/awkwardsoviet/pseuds/awkwardsoviet
Summary: Howdy y'all, I wrote this in ~24 hours sporadically while at work (I work at a police department so it's only fitting) so forgive me if it's trash, I literally haven't read the whole thing all the way through once. But I tend to get stuck in the proofreading process, so my solution is to just...cut it out entirely, lol.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Howdy y'all, I wrote this in ~24 hours sporadically while at work (I work at a police department so it's only fitting) so forgive me if it's trash, I literally haven't read the whole thing all the way through once. But I tend to get stuck in the proofreading process, so my solution is to just...cut it out entirely, lol.

Stefan Bekowsky never made the drive to Wilshire station. Never was a broad term, of course, but unless a case required it, the newly-minted homicide detective could never be found in the small, squat brick building on the corner of 3rd and Vermont, especially after work hours.

But after the headline he’d seen that morning—his intense protégé, LAPD’s Golden Boy, _Cole Phelps_ shacking up with some German broad—there was only place he wanted to be once his shift ended and he parted ways with Rusty with nothing more than a noncommittal grunt and haphazard wave. Of course, Stefan thought as he aimed his black Buick through the hazy September streets, he had no clue if Cole would even be there, much less how he’d react to his old partner bothering him on what could easily be assumed as the worst day in his life. But he had to go to Wilshire, he had to at least _try_ to talk to him, especially after the day homicide had previously, mopping up most of the 6th Marines off the streets of Los Angeles.

The sun hung low on the horizon by the time Stefan pulled into the station parking lot. The warm glow of the streetlamps paled against the creeping chill of the air as Stefan lingered outside long enough to finish a cigarette. He leaned against the hood of his car—which was still warm, thankfully—and gazed at the lot. Cole’s car was nowhere to be found. He tossed the butt of his cigarette to the ground and stepped on it with a heavy sigh, ready to get back in the car and drive home. But he’d come all this way—to leave now would be a waste. Pushing his hands in his pockets, he made his way inside.

The duty officer—a patrolman Stefan knew by face but not name—greeted him with a small nod.

“Bekowsky, what can I do for you?” he asked, not even glancing up from the paper in his hands.

Stefan didn’t even need to guess what article the patrolman was reading. “I’m looking for Phelps, actually.”

The patrolman chuckled and put down his paper. “Isn’t everyone? Try upstairs, detective. Though if I was him, I’d be hiding in a ditch somewhere.”

Stefan bit his tongue with a scowl. “Yeah. Thanks.”

He gave the duty officer a small nod then headed upstairs.

Wilshire Station was primitive, by Stefan’s standards. Central, with the attached receiving hospital and maze-like complex of offices, was a mansion in comparison. Still, it took no time for him to find the detectives office tucked into the corner next to the briefing room. Through the frosted glass, Stefan saw that the room was dim, but not dark. A good sign that someone was in, but no guarantee it was Cole. But if Stefan knew anything of his old partner, he knew that he’d be the one burning the midnight oil over anyone else.

The pulse in his neck ticked a hair faster as he pushed open the door.

A single table lamp burned on the furthest desk, but the room was empty. There was a jacket slung over the back of the chair that Stefan would swear was Cole’s, and a stack of files stacked in the wild, erratic way the Traffic desk always was, but he wasn’t here.

Stefan stood in the doorway, planning his next move. He could stay and wait for whoever was at the desk to return, and then have to deal with the awkwardness when it _isn’t_ Phelps, or he could just turn around and go to his apartment and leave this whole adventure at the bottom of a glass. The second option was arguably the more appealing of the two, and he turned to go. Maybe he’d give Cole a call later in the week, when this whole thing started to di—

“Bekowsky?” Cole asked in a small voice as Stefan nearly ran into him.

“ _Jesus_ , watch ou--…Cole?” Stefan sputtered, meeting the taller man’s eyes. “Your car’s not here.”

Cole sighed and averted his eyes. He looked like he’d aged ten years in just the last month. There were dark circles under his eyes. A strand of hair hung loose over his forehead. He held up a file folder in his hand and motioned into the office. “I walked. Now, if you don’t mind, I want to get back to this. What’re you doing here anyways?”

Stefan stepped aside and followed Cole into the office. He watched Cole closely, the way his eyes didn’t leave the floor, how his tie sat slightly askew.

“I was looking for you, actually,” Stefan said tentatively, pulling another chair over and sitting at the opposite side of the desk.

Cole frowned as he took his seat, but still didn’t look up. After a moment, he chuckled. “Seems like everyone’s looking for me today.”

A beat passed between the two.

“Speaking of which, how’re you doing?” Stefan asked gently.

Cole visibly stiffened, drawing his lips into a thin, tight line. “I’m fine, Bekowsky.”

“Bullshit,” Stefan coughed out, leaning back in his seat with his characteristic smug smile. The warm, touchy-feely route wasn’t going to work on his old partner—he learned that a long time ago. Still, he hoped that something in the last twenty-four hours had softened him, had broken down those walls of his ever-so-slightly. But that wasn’t the case.

Cole didn’t raise his eyes from the papers on his desk, but his eyebrows soared upwards. “Excuse me?”

“Don’t play dumb, Phelps,” Stefan started, “You heard me. You’re not fine.”

The pen in Cole’s hand got slammed to the desk. His patience was wearing thin already. “And you know that how?”

 “Well, for starters, I know Rusty and I spent the better part of yesterday scraping your old unit off the pavement,” Stefan watched as Cole grew even more rigid. “And secondly, I know a married man with two kids doesn’t just run off with some junkie broad without having something wrong in the head.”

That was it. Cole snapped his head up and glared at Stefan. “If you came all this way just to insult me, I think you better leave.”

Stefan put his hands up in surrender. “Hey, _easy_ , Phelps. That’s not what I meant, okay?”

Cole’s shoulders softened but his eyes were still furious. “So, what did you mean, then?”

Stefan sighed and took of his hat, threading his fingers through his hair. What _did_ he mean? Contrary to popular belief, Stefan was a good detective. He knew something was off. Someone as straight-laced and uptight as Cole would never, not in a million years, get involved in a scandal like this, not unless something was wrong. But what?

Rusty often grumbled about some case he and Cole had worked and how “all that work was for nothin’”, but no matter how many times Stefan tried to pry him with alcohol, he wouldn’t give it up. If Cole would ruin his career, his family, his _life_ over some murder, then he was more obsessed with justice than Stefan ever thought possible of the man.

After several minutes of tense silence in which Cole stared daggers into Stefan and Stefan was interested in everything _but_ Cole, Stefan sighed again and looked at Cole.

“Are you okay?” He spoke softly, dialing back the “smug asshole” routine he favored.

Cole half-rolled his eyes but relaxed his shoulders further. “You already asked me that, Bekowsky.”

“Well, I mean it,” Stefan responded. He continued when Cole furrowed his brows. “I mean, it’s not like you, you know? Doing something this...this reckless. Someone like you doesn’t just up and throw away everything he has over some broad. There’s something more to it, Cole. I _know_ you.”

Cole turned his eyes downward and practically slumped in his seat. When he didn’t say anything, Stefan pressed.

“Look, right now I’m probably about the only friend you have in this city. Just…let me help you, goddamnit.”

The sullen, kicked-dog look had returned in Cole’s eyes, but there was something else Stefan noticed, something he couldn’t quite name, but he knew was there.

In a bold move—even by his standards—Stefan reached out and placed a hand firmly on Cole’s shoulder. At first, the older man flinched, but he didn’t pull away. Stefan took this as a good sign and gave a small squeeze before letting go.

“There’s…a lot about me you don’t know,” Cole started, clearing his throat. “Most of it’s…not good.”

“Well,” Stefan coaxed, “You don’t have to tell me everything.”

“No…I…I _want_ to,” Cole stammered, “But I don’t know where to start.”

Stefan considered this for a moment, then spoke. “What about homicide? Rusty’s always complaining about _something_ that happened there.”

Cole’s eyes widened, his jaw tensed. “I…I can-“

“Before you tell me that you _can’t_ tell me, keep in mind I drove all the way here for you,” Stefan interrupted. “You’ve gotta give me something, Cole.”

Cole sighed. “You’re...you’re right. But this can’t leave this room.”

Stefan nodded. “Loose lips, yadda yadda, I understand.”

Cole looked relieved and leaned back a fraction, then closed his eyes. “We found the Dahlia killer,” he whispered, barely audible.

“You _what?!_ ” Stefan less-than-tactfully blurted out, only to get shushed by Cole.

“Keep it down, okay?” the older man hissed. “All of the cases Rusty and I worked on homicide, we got the wrong guys. I had a feeling all along, but you know how Rusty is…anyways, the killer ended up being related to some politician—”

“And it’s an election year,” Stefan added.

“And it’s an election year,” Cole echoed. “Donnelly made sure the original suspects were quietly let go, and Rusty and I were told to keep quiet or lose our jobs.”

“What happened to the killer?”

“I shot him,” Cole deadpanned.

“ _Jesus…_ ” Stefan took a minute to process this. “this is really bothering you, huh?”

Cole closed his eyes once more. “More than you could ever know. Those…those people that were arrested, people are going to suspect them for the rest of their lives. And the actual killer died in obscurity having never been brought to justice.”

Stefan watched Cole for a minute or two. It looked like a ton of bricks had been lifted from his shoulders, but there was still something haunting about his eyes. Maybe it was just lack of sleep, or stress, or a combination of the two, but Stefan had a feeling there was more to it. Solving the Dahlia and not bringing the killer to justice was enough to make even the worst detective lose his head, but Cole wasn’t the worst detective. This was _Cole_ , after all, who wouldn’t know shoddy policework even if it hit him over the head, who never went home before midnight, who faced every task with feverish intensity.

“This isn’t it, though,” Stefan stated more than asked.

“No, it’s not,” Cole answered in a far-off voice. He shivered and pulled his arms against his chest despite the room being warm.

Stefan _hated_ this. He hated watching his confident and talented ex-partner wilt, hated the things he overhead that day at Central, hated that the man that once had everything now had nothing. He wanted to scream, to remind them all of what a good man Phelps is, that they were all singing his praises not even 48 hours ago. He couldn’t, of course, without being put in the crossfire himself. But _goddamnit_ , none of this was right.

 _Fuck it_ , he thought, coming around the desk and wrapping his arms around Cole. It was all he could think to do, but it felt _right_ regardless. Cole jumped and stiffened at the contact. But Stefan persisted, tightening his arms.

After a second, Cole softened and let Stefan hold him, taking in the faint smell of cologne and detergent, feeling the rough wooly suit jacket against his skin. The thought of someone else coming in the room and making his life even _more_ of a mess didn’t even cross his mind as the world became a little less lonely, a little less harsh, a little less empty in Stefan’s arms.

“I’m…I’m not ready to tell you the rest,” Cole mumbled, breaking the contact hesitantly.

Stefan instinctively brushed the loose strands of hair out of Cole’s face. “At least let me take you home, then.”

Cole paused, then nodded.

Wordlessly, he followed Stefan out of the station and into the cool, inky California night.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> James Ellroy's writing style rubbed off on me already whoops

Cole never specified where exactly home _is_ , and Stefan wasn’t going to ask—the spectral, maudlin look in his ex-partner’s eyes enough to keep his mouth shut. He hoped the move wasn’t too bold then when he swung the jet-black car into the parking lot of his apartment building. Surely, it was normal—and outright charitable—to care for a friend when they’ve had a rough day. If anything, Stefan was acting on behalf of the angels.

Besides, Cole hadn’t even noticed, his arms still drawn tight against his chest as if winter had come early, his movements slow and imprecise as they entered the building.

Stefan punched the elevator call button. “I don’t know if you’ve eaten yet, but I know I’m starving.” He gestured for Cole to step onto the lift. “I’m not a good cook but…we also could get take-out.”

Cole shook his head. “I’m fine.” He paused a fraction of a second to meet Stefan’s eyes. “Thank you though.”

Stefan smiled a wide, face-splitting grin and clapped Cole on the shoulder. “You don’t get out of my cooking that easily. Sixth floor, will ya?”

Cole pushed the button but pulled his arms against his body once more. The walls had gone back up in the blink of an eye, and Stefan found himself getting frustrated.

When the elevator stopped, Stefan guided Cole to the right with a light touch on his waist. “Come on, this way.”

The oppressive, grey tenements of Brooklyn where Stefan spent his childhood were loud, cramped, and dark compared to his current building. Boasting only fifty units and carpeted, plush hallways, the building offered Stefan quiet neighbors, hot water—and the water actually stayed in the pipes instead of running down the walls—and a balcony overlooking a small courtyard. He didn’t even mind living alone. He needed somewhere at the end of the day where he could shed the stress of work, and he had found it. But now, with Cole at his side as he unlocked the door, Stefan couldn’t help but think that this plan had failed.

No, he thought as he took his hat off and hung it on the rack by the door, Cole wasn’t work stress. Cole was _personal_ stress. He could have never made the drive to Wilshire, he could have never walked into that station, hell, he could have never let Cole be a part of his life after he was promoted. But something compelled him to do all of this, something he couldn’t name but _felt_ like a stone behind his solar plexus.

He shook his head, trying to stop thinking. What he needed to focus on was Cole and making sure he was okay. And by the harried and hollow look on his face, he was far from it. Stefan fought the urge to wrap his arms around him, instead settling for pulling his badge from his belt and throwing it unceremoniously to the dining table.

“You know, in all the time we spent together in traffic, I don’t think I ever asked you what your favorite food is,” Stefan half-chuckled, shrugging out of his jacket and holster and hanging them from the back of one of the dining chairs. “Knowing you, it’s probably some complex French thing with snails or something.”

The corners of Cole’s mouth twitched as he slid into the opposite seat, placing his hat on the table. “Would it shock you to know that I don’t have a favorite food?”

Stefan gasped in mock offense, then softened with a warm grin. “Actually, Cole. I’m not shocked in the least. Let me guess, you don’t have a favorite color, either?”

Cole shook his head, a small smile starting to spread on his face.

“Well,” Stefan prattled on, moving into the kitchen and flicking on the lights, “Mine’s blue. ‘Spose _everyone’s_ favorite color is blue, though. The ocean, the sky, those nice dresses in the Sears catalog…everyone likes blue.”

“I suppose you’re right,” Cole said, twirling the salt shaker and watching the gains dance around. “Though green is pretty nice.”

“Green?” Stefan repeated, mulling it over as he pulled pots and pans from the cabinets. “Yeah, it’s not bad, I guess.”

“Your tie’s green, Stefan,” Cole started with a chuckle, “I’d hope you like it.”

That elicited a roar of laughter from the kitchen along with the telltale _click-whoosh_ of a pilot light. “To be honest, it was a gift from my mother. I hate the thing but…it goes with the suit.”

“I think it looks good,” Cole said, his voice getting that far-off quality.

Stefan smiled to himself. He opened his mouth to say something. Closed it.

He went back to cooking.

They ate together quietly—comfortably, but neither had much to say. Stefan thought about Cole. Cole thought about Marie. Both were conversations neither man wanted to have.

Stefan cleared the table, replacing the plates with two lowball glasses and a quart of scotch. When Cole started to protest, he waved his hand dismissively.

“I don’t wanna hear it, Phelps,” he poured the liquor. The glasses filled to the brim.

Cole fingered the rim of his glass in thought. Stefan crossed the room to sit on the couch, stretching out his legs in front of him and closing his eyes.

Cole followed.

“You do this every night?” he wavered, sitting on the other end of the sofa, watching the contents of his too-full glass with careful consternation.

Stefan shrugged, took a sip. “Depends on what you’re asking about.” He glanced out of the corner of his eye at the other man with an almost unreadable slyness.

Cole half-laughed, half-sighed. “I don’t know.”

Now it was Stefan’s turn to stare into his glass, a thousand things coming to mind, a thousand things leaving.

“Guess not,” he finally said cryptically, draining the glass and standing up. He reached for Cole’s, who downed it in one go when he noticed Stefan’s outstretched hand.

“Jesus,” Stefan let out, moving to refill the glasses. “You don’t have to give yourself alcohol poisoning out of politeness, Cole.”

Stefan’s footsteps filled the silence.

Cole grinned as he took the refilled glass, but it faded quickly. “No, it’s-…it’s fine.”

Stefan returned to his seat and regarded his ex-partner. Already, the alcohol had warmed his cheeks to a light, dusty pink, the tight, concentrated look on his face slipping into something more placid and serene. Stefan couldn’t help but stare at something so _beautiful_ , so human and vulnerable and soft, something so…abnormal of him. He watched as Cole’s delicate lips sipped the liquor, how they framed the glass. He inched his eyes lazily downwards, past his supple throat and square shoulders, noticing his tie pin, his shirt buttons, his belt buckle…

He blushed and focused his eyes on the coffee table in front of him, denying the way his chest ached. Whatever _this_ was, it scared the hell out of him. And now was not the time for it. Hell, he doubted it would _ever_ be the time. But…

“What did you mean?” Stefan asked suddenly, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees.

Cole stopped mid-sip and cocked his head. “What do _you_ mean?”

Stefan began to sweat under his collar. “When you asked if I do this every night. What the hell did you mean?”

Cole emptied his glass with a shudder and a grimace. “Do you always take your ex-partner to your apartment and get him drunk?”

Stefan’s anger flared. He stammered. “Now, listen her—”

“No,” Cole said, lifting a finger and pointing it at Stefan. “ _You_ listen. I don’t need your charity—”

“Charity?” Stefan blurted out, “What goddamned charity? I’m trying to be _nice_ , for fuck’s sake!”

Cole glared, continuing through gritted teeth. “I _said_ , I don’t need your charity. But,” he softened, leaning his head back and closing his eyes. “I appreciate it. I don’t _understand_ it, but…I appreciate it.”

“Well,” Stefan bit, “that’s the most back-handed way of saying ‘thank you’ I’ve ever heard.”

Cole’s face reddened as he squeezed his eyes tighter. “That’s not what I meant.”

Stefan almost rolled his eyes. “Do you ever say what you mean?”

“Do you?” Cole asked, sitting up and meeting Stefan’s eyes.

The younger man balked, incredulous. “Why don’t _you_ let anyone help you, goddammit? You know, as shocking as it might be, people actually _care_ about you, Cole!” He stood up, unable to contain himself. “I drove across the _entire fucking city_ today to make sure you’re okay, and for _once,_ you actually act human and tell me why you’re so fucked up, you tell me about the Dahlia, but as soon as I try and help you with everything, you fucking close yourself off to me again! I don’t _get_ it!”

For the first time in all the months that Stefan knew him, Cole was silent. His expression was something between a scolded child and a furious Army general, and Stefan didn’t know which he preferred. He grabbed his glass from the coffee table and started to move towards the kitchen, blood pounding in his temples. But a hand on his wrist stopped him.

“What the fuc—”

“Come here,” Cole spoke softly, pulling Stefan closer.

Stefan had no choice but to sit down next to Cole, his wrist still trapped in his strong, calloused grip. Cole took the glass from his hand and replaced it on the table.

“Look,” he started, his eyes focused on the carpet. “I’m…I’m sorry.”

Stefan pulled to get his wrist free but was unsuccessful. “That’s great, now let me go.”

“No,” Cole snapped with that quick, feverish intensity he used on a case. “I…I need you to listen to me. _Please._ ”

Stefan met his eyes and saw the hurt in them. “Okay,” he nodded, “I’m here, I’m listening.”

Cole finally relaxed his grip on Stefan’s wrist, letting it fall. Stefan immediately missed the warmth.

The older man sighed, paused, looked Stefan in the eyes once more. “Remember how I said friends who want to stay friends shouldn’t discuss the war?”


	3. Chapter 3

Nine o’ clock, ten o’clock, eleven o’clock, midnight, all came and went in the soundless beat of a hummingbird’s wing. And still, Cole talked, bared his soul to the only one who ever asked to listen. It wasn’t just about the war—although a fair chunk of it was—it was about his childhood, about Stanford, about Marie, about his daughters, about homicide and vice and now arson. It was about the pain, the guilt—the sleepless nights that came more and more frequently, the flashbacks and panic that plagued the days.

               Stefan sat and absorbed it all, mostly wordlessly. If someone asked him four months ago who the most boring person on the planet was, he would have said Cole’s name faster than a breath. But now, as he sat next to him on his couch in his shadowy apartment, his tie long-forgotten and his top button undone, a gentle hand on his knee, he couldn’t imagine anyone more tragic, more compelled to do good simply because life didn’t do right by him. And his heart ached thinking of that morning’s headline and the troupe of reporters even Central had to fight off. His heart ached knowing Cole carried this burden. No one else knew the real story—hell, not even Marie. He alone knew, and that sat heavy in his chest.

               Cole’s eyes were tired. The conversation—if one could call something as raw and one-sided as this a conversation—was dwindling to a halt. He checked his watch as he stifled a yawn.

               Stefan watched him. Not with pity, but with a profound sadness, a desperation that made his pulse tick and his chest tight. He stood and held his hand out to Cole, who simply looked at him passively.

               “Come on,” he invited sweetly in an uncharacteristically quiet voice.

               Instead of hesitation, relief washed over Cole’s face as he took Stefan’s hand and let himself be pulled up from the couch. He swayed a little on his feet, the alcohol long gone but the effects lingering. Stefan steadied him, a firm hand on the middle of his back.

               “Who knew you’d be a lightweight, huh?” Stefan joked, looking into Cole’s eyes. When he noticed how Cole’s eyes looked back at his with some unspoken plea, he frowned.

               “What do you need?” he whispered, keeping his hand in place.  

               Cole blinked groggily. Then, a small, slow smile. “I could use a shower.”

               Stefan smiled back, leading Cole down the hallway. “Okay, well let’s get you undr—" he paused, realizing what he was about to say. His cheeks burned. “Bathroom’s on the left. You can put your clothes in my room, I don’t care, but uh…I’ll leave you to it.”

               Cole nodded, but that pleading look returned in his eyes as the younger man turned to leave.

               “What?” Stefan asked, growing impatient in his own exhaustion.

                Cole didn’t answer. He instead pulled Stefan against him, fingers curled in his back, forehead pressed to the side of his neck.

               Stefan felt a skip in his chest at the contact—an electric shock, really—but relaxed immediately against Cole’s warmth. He wrapped his arms tight around Cole’s shoulders, one hand cradling the back of his head. He held tight as if the ground beneath them was crumbling, as if somehow, he could take all of Cole’s sadness away with just this. Of course, he couldn’t, so he settled for memorizing everything—Cole’s breath against his collarbone, his surprisingly strong arms around his waist, the smell of Brylcreem and aftershave and scotch. Things that weren’t sad, things that made his heart swell, things that made everything feel okay.

               Cole shifted to look into Stefan’s eyes, and every nerve and synapse within the young detective told him to kiss him—to stop denying himself this, to give in to both protective and selfish needs. But he couldn’t. Cole was still tipsy. He was still tired. And he was still not in a place mentally to be making choices he’d regret when the storm died down.

               If Cole noticed the cold sweat along Stefan’s brow, he didn’t mention it, choosing instead to step back, putting some distance between the two of them but keeping his hands resting on Stefan’s waist.

               “Thank you,” he sighed. “For…everything.”

               Stefan cocked his head slightly and let go of him. “Of course, Phelps.” He breathed in, breathed out. Overthought his next move, settled on a smile. “Here, let me take your jacket.”

               Cole nodded. “Right, right.” He shrugged out of it and handed it to Stefan.

               Stefan stood in front of him still, his other hand outstretched. When Cole furrowed his brows, Stefan couldn’t stop the laugh that came out of him.

               “You gonna shower with that .45 of yours or what, Cole?”

               Cole looked confused for a second, then realized that he did indeed still have his holster on. He grinned wide and started to wiggle out of it, but he fumbled with the slippery leather in his drunken state.

               Stefan sighed with a genial roll of his eyes and a small chuckle. “Do I have to do everything for you? Here, let me.”

               He helped Cole out of it, letting his hands drag a little more than necessary against his ex-partner’s shoulder blades, tracing the indents it left behind, trailing his hands slowly down his arms.

               This didn’t go unnoticed if the new pinkness on Cole’s cheeks was any indication. But a mumbled “thanks” and the resolute _click_ of the closed bathroom door left Stefan alone.

               He shuffled into his bedroom, flicking on the small lamp on his nightstand and tossing Cole’s jacket on the end of the bed. He unceremoniously stripped out of the remainder of his own clothes until he stood in nothing but his boxers and undershirt. He heard the water turn on and collapsed on the bed, his arm flung over his eyes.

                When he woke up this morning, he didn’t expect any of this. He didn’t expect the Times to be screaming about Cole on the front page, he didn’t expect to end up at Wilshire, he didn’t expect to drive Cole to his apartment, he didn’t expect to get him drunk and get him to spill his entire life story, he didn’t expect him to use his shower, he didn’t expect his heart to ache like it did. But somehow it felt _right_ , like the universe was guiding them both towards what should be, like every choice and decision until this point was leading to the unmistakable truth that Stefan loved Cole, that he always had, and he always will, even if the next world war started tomorrow or the sun burned out next Tuesday or his heart gave out in 40 years. Stefan loved Cole, and it didn’t matter what happened or what will happen or even what was currently happening. Stefan loved Cole. _Stefan loved Cole._

Stefan closed his eyes, fighting the pinprick tears coming to surface. He listened to the water running, focused on it, let it lull him and the downpour of emotion that rolled inside him. He must have drifted to sleep at some point as the soft _click_ of the door snapped him awake—he was never a heavy sleeper.

               “I’m sorry I didn’t mean to wake you,” Cole whispered, standing in the doorway.

               Stefan rubbed his eyes. _Was he really seeing Cole in his boxers?_ A jolt of electricity shot through him. He tried to think of some smartass comment. He couldn’t.

               “No, no I wasn—it’s no big deal, I’m a light sleeper,” he stuttered, his voice sleepy.

               “Oh, good,” Cole replied, shuffling from foot to foot.

Stefan swore he could see him blushing, but it was too dark to tell. “There’s uhm…” he waved his right hand in the direction of the dresser, “some night shirts. We’re probably the same size but…” he tried not to let his eyes linger as he looked over Cole’s torso. “But yeah, they’re in the dresser.”

“Okay, thank you,” Cole said thickly, moving towards the dresser. “Which drawer?”

Stefan frowned. He couldn’t remember. He’d done his routine for so long that it never really crossed his mind _where_ things were—he only cared when they weren’t there at all.

Groaning, he pushed himself from the bed, wobbling a little on his tired legs. “Lemme find ‘em.”

As he came up behind Cole, that’s when he saw it. Even in the dim light obscured partially by his own shadow, the imperfectly round, slightly purple, mostly white bump sat squarely in the middle of Cole’s back. Stefan knew about it—Cole had told him earlier—but he still gasped quietly, desperate to reach out and trace it, to feel the sharkskin-smooth texture. He needed to know that Cole was okay. He knew he wasn’t because he was standing in his boxers in his ex-partner’s bedroom for Christ’s sake, but this was _different,_ something much more permanent and tangible. He needed to _feel_ this literal closure, to feel this long-stitched wound and reaffirm that all of them heal eventually—whether for his sake or Cole’s, he didn’t know.

He reached out, noticing a shake in his fingers that wasn’t there before. Carefully, he brushed his fingertips against the scar.

Cole stiffened. His head fell. His eyes screwed shut. His hand closed in a fist.

“Is this okay?” Stefan asked softly.

Cole turned his head but didn’t look up. He nodded, taking a deep, sharp breath.

Silent, Stefan pressed his fingertips against the scar again, a little stronger this time, but still with a tremble. He traced the outline, felt the waver and unevenness in its edge, noted the small lines like railroad tracks extending from the top and bottom. He watched as Cole’s skin began to prickle like gooseflesh, the way his shoulder muscles tightened. He flattened his palm down over the mark, stilling.

Time held on, refusing to inch forward, refusing to yield to inevitable change, inevitable loss, inevitable _difference._ Instead, it sat stubborn, greedily absorbing the moment like a last meal—Cole’s hot-cold skin, his shaky breaths, his still-damp hair—as if this was all there was, all there is, and all there is going to be.

But the most painful truth—Stefan learned as he let his hand drop, let the moment slip away like a paper boat on ocean waves—was that nothing was permanent. _This_ wasn’t permanent. Cole was drunk and sad and come morning or next week or next month or next year, he’d be gone—to another woman, to another city, to another job, to something that _wasn’t_ this. And it made his heart ache, it made his bones feel old and his skin feel tight even though he was only 26 and was far away from the worst of life, but yet the idea that one day, maybe even tomorrow, this would be gone seemed the hardest life would ever be.

Cole turned and looked at him with that pensive face he wore so well, that face that he’d wear as he hunched over his notebook in the patrol car, or as he looked over reports late into the night. It was simple—not a scowl nor a frown nor a smile but somehow all of the above—that belied something deeper than Stefan could ever understand.

Still, he tried, reaching out his hand with a soft smile, grinning as bright as the California sun as Cole closed his fingers around his.


	4. Chapter 4

Somewhere in the back of his mind, Stefan wondered if he’d get any sleep that night. Cole dozed against his chest, his arms curled around his waist. Stefan tucked Cole’s head under his chin and stroked his hair absentmindedly.

As peaceful—and rewarding, if Stefan were to be honest—as this was, he couldn’t relax. He couldn’t surrender to warmth and comfort with his heart feeling so cold and raw. The things Cole had told him…

None of it mattered, Stefan knew. War was war, bad things happened. Cole was still the hero in his eyes, still the strapping and charismatic former Marine turned LAPD Golden Boy. Of course, he’d disagree. He’d bristle and get that tight-lipped, calculating look on his face like he did when suspects lied to him. But that’s what Stefan loved about him—he loved his stubbornness, his seriousness, his sadness and despair that lingered like a spectre behind his eyes. He didn’t love him _despite_ all of this, he loved him _for_ it. Did that make Stefan crazy?

It was hard to tell what constituted crazy at this point. Most would have drawn the line at wanting to see Phelps at all, but where _he_ would draw that line remained to be seen. Stefan knew that he’d follow Cole to the ends of the earth—he knew that from their first day together on traffic, from the first time he saw his clear blue eyes and soft smile and felt his heart skip. Of course, everything up until now was a fantasy, something Stefan would wake from with a start in the middle of the night, his hands balled into fists. And for all he knew, this was already over, whatever _this_ was. Cole would wake up and—after an awkward morning of things remembered—would leave Stefan, stubbornly refusing to be driven to the station and cutting the only one who ever listened to him out of his life forever. It wasn’t fair but it was the truth—the bitter pill Stefan had to swallow.

Cole stirred in his arms and Stefan had to fight the urge to wake him and tell him he loved him right then and there, to get that burning feeling out from underneath his ribs. But Cole needed his sleep, and Stefan didn’t need that ache in his chest he’d get when Cole inevitably didn’t return the sentiment. For now, it was enough to just have him tonight, enough to protect him for the few short hours left between here and sunrise, enough to know that _this_ might go but the memory will stay forever.

Stefan placed a chaste kiss on the top of Cole’s head, his tongue heavy with a million things he wanted to say but couldn’t. Instead he sighed, closing his eyes and letting himself succumb to sleep.

 

It wasn’t long before dawn rudely peeked its ugly head through the curtains, casting a bright beam of light directly across Stefan’s face.

He winced and groaned, rolling away from the window, trying to burrow back into the warmth of sleep. It was too early, too bright, and his head pounded with the beginnings of a hangover. It had been a long night, and five more minutes wouldn’t hurt anyon—

 _Cole_ , he thought, springing upright, the tired warmth in his chest replaced with panic when he realized he was alone. He jumped from the bed as if it were made of hot coals. _Cole_ , his mind repeated, his feet beating a solid _thump_ as he moved into the hallway, the bathroom, the kitchen, the living room—all empty.

“ _Cole_ ,” he whispered, sliding down to the carpet.

He knew this would happen. He _knew_ Cole was flighty. He _knew_ Cole was hurting. He _knew_ this was not going to last no matter the lies he told himself during the night. But anger still washed over him, anger over being left without a goodbye, anger over the way his heart felt raw, anger over how _right_ he was about it all. He wanted to cry. He wanted to scream. He wanted to rip his chest open and let the chasmic hole he felt there consume everything, to just lay down and let it all be over. He couldn’t, of course, because there was nothing to miss. There was nothing that had ever filled that hole. What happened between him and Cole was a fantasy born of desperation and killed by reality. It was a lapse of judgment. It was a drunken mistake. It wasn’t _real_.

And that’s how he squared it away as he forced himself to start his morning. It wasn’t real. The razor graining along his cheek was real. The sting of aftershave was real. The smell of Brylcreem, the taste of eggs, the texture of a silk tie, these were all real, and these were all things that would _always_ be real, things that would never be a part of some half-crazed, idealistic and near-hopeless rose-tinted world. Even in a month, a hundred years, a thousand millennium, scientists and historians could look back and describe them, feel them, know them, right down to the molecules that make them.

The sun hurt his eyes as he slid into the driver’s seat of his Buick. He took the time to light a cigarette before turning the key, relishing in the way the nicotine tasted, the way his lungs filled and deflated. This too was real. The glint of light off the cars he passed, the smooth asphalt under his tires, the measured way the traffic lights changed, all real—as was the scowl on Rusty’s face as Stefan pulled into the station.

“You missed roll,” Rusty called to him from the doorway, stomping out a cigarette underfoot.

Stefan slammed the car door and climbed the few stairs up to the building. “So what?”

Rusty chuckled and slapped Stefan on the shoulder a little harder than necessary as they walked into the station. “Don’t get testy, Bekowsky. Was just wondering where you were, s’all.”

“Why, you eager to get to work?” Stefan joked, but the smile he flashed didn’t reach his eyes. He felt constricted, jittery.

“Heh,” Rusty started, handing a file folder to Stefan, “guess so. Maybe some time with Phelps actually did me some good, though nowadays…wouldn’t want to be within a hundred feet of the guy.”

Stefan bit his tongue. He flicked through the file, a record for a twenty-year old found dead in MacArthur Park that morning—typical stuff: vagrancy, loitering, petty theft, and—

Stefan’s eyed widened.

“Another Hollywood ‘homo’-cide,” Rusty nodded, noticing his partner’s expression. “Let’s have this wrapped up before lunch.”

The younger detective frowned. He was painfully familiar with his partner’s bigotry, but it still grated on him, and after the night he had, he wasn’t sure whether he should laugh or cry at the absurdity of it all.

“He’s still a person, Rusty,” Stefan started, moving to the parking lot. “And it’s still our job to catch whoever did this.”

Rusty scoffed, falling gracelessly into the passenger seat. “God, now _you’re_ starting to sound like Phelps. It’s an open and shut case, Bekowsky. Don’t make it any harder than it has to be.”

Stefan jammed the key in the ignition. He tried to think of something smart to say, something tactless about Rusty’s weight or his mother, but instead, he sighed.

“Let’s just get this over with,” he said thickly, not entirely sure if he was talking to himself or Rusty.

He pulled away from the curb, steering into the early morning traffic, letting it quiet his mind with its monotony, its pattern and flow. Rusty fell silent—for better or worse—and Stefan stopped thinking. Before he knew it, they were at MacArthur Park, pulling parallel to an area cordoned off by the responding patrol officers.

Mal was already there—he always was, it was as if the man teleported everywhere with how quick he responded—as were a small gathering of park-goers and reporters. Stefan greeted him with a handshake.

“What’ve you got for us, Mal?” Stefan asked, following him past the barriers.

Mal sighed and pointed towards a copse of low bushes. “That would be one Juan Alvarez, age 20. Groundskeepers found him this morning. Given his temperature, I’d say time of death was somewhere around 3 A.M.”

Stefan crouched and looked at the body before him—a young, darker-skinned boy with a head of thick, black hair damp with dew and bruises around his temples and mouth. A line of dried blood ran from the corner of his mouth down his neck to a small pool underneath him on the grass.

“Cause of death?” Stefan asked, standing and turning to Mal.

“My best guess is blunt force trauma to his abdomen, from the blood around his mouth. We’ll find out once I get him back to the morgue.” Mal stuck his hands in his pockets. “Between you and me, I hope this isn’t the start of something new…this city’s had enough young people murdered and dumped like trash this year.”

Stefan shot a quick glance at Rusty, who visibly stiffened. Mal, the guy who had to cut open all those young women and weigh their organs and test their blood, didn’t even know the truth about the Dahlia. The maw inside Stefan’s chest threatened to consume him and he realized this is how Cole feels all the time and for a _second,_ he felt an unending sadness, the same he felt last night when he first learned all of Cole’s secrets. But the anger and hurt returned just as quick.

  _It wasn’t real_ , he thought, trying to suppress everything and focus on the task at hand.

“Yeah, well, I think we can all agree on that,” Stefan started. “Let me know if you find out anything else, okay?”

Mal bid his farewells and turned to go. A patrol officer took his place, handing Stefan the wallet found at the scene. Inside was Alvarez’ identification, a five-dollar bill, and an empty matchbook from a dive bar with a phone number scribbled on it.

“Well, we know the motive wasn’t robbery,” Rusty said more to himself. “And, given his record and the grass stains on his knees, I’ll give you one guess as to what Mal’s gonna find.”

Stefan hadn’t even noticed the stains.

 _Phelps would have noticed_ , his mind supplied.  

“We should check out this number,” Stefan cut, moving towards the car.

               Rusty plopped leadenly into the passenger side. “And the bar, someone might’ve seen him there.”

               “ _I’ll_ check out the bar while _you_ stay put,” Stefan directed with a finger pointed in Rusty’s face. Most days he tolerated his partner’s drinking—even encouraged it from time to time and, after finding out about the Dahlia, he’d even _understand_ it—but today was not one of those days.

He ignored Rusty’s grumbled complaints and radioed dispatch for the bar’s address.  The drive was short, and he stepped out of the car with a fired warning glance in Rusty’s direction.

“I mean it…and try and get an address for that phone number,” he added before closing the door and watching his partner scowl.

The bar—Lenny’s—wasn’t open, but Stefan saw a man wiping down tables through the large, pane-glass window in front. He rapped his knuckles against it, holding up his badge once he got the man’s attention.

“Yeah, what can I do for you?” the man asked, unlocking the front door and stepping aside.

Stefan took a seat at the bar—waved off the offered empty glass. His head still hurt from last night. “Do you know Juan Alvarez? He’s about five-six, 180 pounds, Mexican?”

The bartender—Lenny himself—shook his head. “Can’t say I do. We don’t get a lot of non-regulars in here.”  

Stefan pursed his lips and sat quiet for a second. “So, tell me about your regulars, then.”

Lenny frowned. “Sure, detective. We’ve got your typical, blue-collar workers, Frank and Jimmy from the rail company…Jeannie, the old lady from upstairs, she gets a Bloody Mary every night…and we’ve got this new fella, no idea what his name is. Kind of queer if you ask me, always talking to men sitting by themselves, always coming alone and leaving alone.”

“What’s this guy look like?”

“Brown hair, brown eyes. About six-foot, medium-build. Kind of looks like a boxer or something though. Crooked nose.”

“And when was the last time he was in here, Lenny?”

Lenny furrowed his brow. “I think he was here last night; pretty sure he was, yeah. Talking to some guy in the corner booth. Didn’t get a look at the guy though.”

“And you really have no name, no address, no telephone number for this guy?” Stefan pressed, leaning over the bar.

“Look, detective, it’s not my job to know everything about my customers…but I _did_ overhear him say something a few weeks ago about a place around here. I think he said it’s on Bimini? Didn’t catch the street number,” Lenny replied, nodding solemnly. “I wish I could tell ya more but…the guy’s a freak. Probably a fag. I don’t pay much attention to him.”

Stefan stood from his seat with a steel-cool gaze. “Thanks for you help,” he offered his hand.

Back in the car, he recapped his conversation to Rusty, who smiled wickedly. “So, this shady guy gets sissy with our stiff in the park, he freaks out, kicks the guy in the stomach, probably stomps on him for good measure, and that’s that. And it’s still before lunchtime. Good job, Bekowsky.”

Stefan didn’t respond. “You got an address for that telephone number?”

Rusty sighed. “Yeah, 140 Bimini Place, registered to Mr. and Mrs. William Schwartz.”

“That can’t be coincidence,” Stefan mumbled, reaching for the radio and calling in a pickup of William Schwartz.

When the dispatcher asked where Mr. Schwartz should be held, Rusty supplied an answer before Stefan could.

“Wilshire,” he interrupted, “it’s closest.”

Stefan didn’t argue but felt his stomach drop. “Yeah, Wilshire’s fine.”

When the call ended, Rusty coughed, cleared his throat, and leaned heavily into the seat. “We should go see Mal first. It’d be nice to pin this on Schwartz, first try.”

Stefan threw the car into drive without much thought, driving to the morgue by instinct only. He tried to stall as much as he could when there, but Mal was a busy man and the case did seem to be very open-and-close. The victim had bruises on his torso in the shape of a boot—about a size 9, according to Mal—and most of his internal organs had ruptured from the trauma. There were foreign hairs and traces of semen found on his clothes. William Schwartz couldn’t be placed at the scene yet, but Stefan had a good feeling about the case, even if thinking about it caused bile to rise in his throat.

When they arrived at Wilshire, Stefan scanned the parking lot for Cole’s car, breathing a sigh of relief when he didn’t see it. Rusty came up next to him as they entered the station, stopping him with a hand on his elbow.

“Look, Bekowsky, you sure you’re ready for this?” He muttered.

Stefan furrowed his brow. “What do you mean?”

Rusty rolled his eyes. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost, kid.”

“I’m fin—”

“Lie to me all you want, I just need to make sure you’re not gonna mess this up in there,” Rusty interrupted when Stefan tried to protest. “Let’s get this guy, okay?”

Stefan swallowed hard. Were his emotions _that_ noticeable? He shook his head; it didn’t matter, Rusty was right regardless. He couldn’t let all this bullshit with Cole ruin the case.

“I won’t let you down,” Stefan said with a clap on Rusty’s shoulder and a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. He brushed past his partner with forced confidence.

“Hey, your guy’s in interview two,” the duty officer called to him.

Stefan nodded his thanks and found his way to the interview room, careful to not look down the hallways or at the staircase in case _someone_ happened to be there.

 _It wasn’t real,_ he reminded himself as he pushed open the door of the room. _It wasn’t real,_ he repeated as he took the seat opposite of Mr. Schwartz.

               “William Schwartz, I’m Detective Bekowsky, this here is my partner, Detective Galloway,” he started, gesturing towards Rusty who had followed him into the room and stood with his back pressed to the wall, arms crossed. “I’d like to ask you a few questions.”

               William Schwartz was exactly as Lenny described. Older and large in both height and weight, with dark features and a nose that looked like it had been broken at least three separate times, he crowded the small table between him and Stefan.

“I’d like to ask _you_ a few questions of my own, detective,” he spit, glaring at both officers. “starting with that the fuck this is all about.”

“Can it, shitheel,” Rusty growled, pushing himself off the wall and standing closer to William.

Stefan locked eyes with Rusty for a second, silently thanking him for the intimidation factor. Rusty wasn’t nearly as big as William, but Stefan wasn’t nearly as big as Rusty.

He cleared his throat. “How about we work out a little deal, Mr. Schwartz?”

“Bill.”

“ _Mr. Schwartz_ ,” Stefan emphasized. “You’re going to answer some of our questions, and then, time permitting, we’ll get to yours.”

Bill’s face contorted, swelling with different shades of red. After a minute, he sighed. “Fine.”

“ _Thank you_ ,” Stefan half-smirked. “Now, let’s start with something easy, Bill. What shoe size are you?”

Bill frowned. “I think nine...ten…somewhere around there. What’s that got to do with anything?”

“Hey, Billy, what did my partner just say about you asking questions?” Rusty sneered.

Bill glared at him but said nothing.

“That’s what I thought,” Rusty smiled, leaning against the side wall now.

Stefan tapped his finger on the table twice, thinking. Interviews were never his strong suit, his silver tongue always turning to lead the minute he sat across from a suspect. Cole however…

 _Stop_ , he almost said out-loud. _It wasn’t real._

“Do you happen to know this bar—real dive, off of Hoover—Lenny’s?” he questioned, watching Bill’s face closely.

Bill chuckled. “It’s Los Angeles, detective. There’re a hundred dive bars for every five blocks in this city. If I knew all of them, I’d be dead from alcohol poisoning already.”

“Funny, I spoke to Lenny himself this morning, says there’s a regular fellow that looks…well exactly like you in there every night.”

“There’s a lot of guys that look like me.”

“How many of them are boxers, do you think?” When Bill didn’t answer, Stefan continued. “That nose of yours is pretty distinctive, Bill.”

“Okay, I know the place. It’s on the way home from work, so I stop in pretty regularly. Nothing wrong with that, right?”

Rusty cracked his knuckles. “ _What_ did we _just_ get done saying about questions, Billy?”

“It’s Bill, not _Billy_ ,” Bill grumbled, staring daggers at Rusty.

“Excuse my partner, Bill, let’s just focus on the questions,” Stefan redirected. “So, what do you do at Lenny’s? Sit and drink alone then go home to the missus?”

“Pretty much,” Bill replied. He turned his head away from Stefan, looking anywhere but at him.

Stefan squinted, watching Bill squirm. It would be funny if it didn’t remind him of Cole, of the way his eyes darted everywhere last night as he told Stefan about Okinawa, about Sugar Loaf and Hank Merrill and the way his back still hurt sometimes.

_It wasn’t real._

“You ever talk to the other patrons, Bill? Maybe young men, sitting alone?”

               “What the fuck are you saying?”

               “It’s a simple question, really. Do you ever go to Lenny’s and try to pick up lonely, single men?”

               Bill gritted his teeth, his face twisting, pulsating. A vein in his forehead popped out. “You calling me queer?”

               “Your word, not his,” Rusty supplied. “Though not the first time I’ve heard it used on you.”

               Bill launched himself at Rusty, getting so far as grabbing his lapels and pushing him flat against the wall before Stefan was able to pull him off.

Stefan handcuffed him to the table, sweat forming on his brow from exertion.

Bill continued to shout obscenities from his seat as Rusty stepped out of the room, mumbling a few choice words of his own. Stefan followed him out with a fatal glare in Bill’s direction.

“Fucking _hell_ ,” Rusty started, straightening his tie. “Reaction like that, guy’s all but telling us he’s guilty.”

Stefan let out a small chuckle. “We wouldn’t have a job if it was that easy.”

Rusty patted him on the shoulder with his own laugh. “Got a point there, Bekowsky. We should let him cool down a bit before we get back in there.”

Stefan looked through the frosted glass door. Rusty had a point, but time away from the case was time spent in his head, and he wasn’t sure that was somewhere he wanted to be. Still, pressing Bill anymore at this point wasn’t going to end well.

He checked down the hallway near-instinctively, seeing only unfamiliar patrolmen.

He breathed—in, out. “Yeah. I could use a cup of coffee anyways.”

As with any station, the break room was a flurry of activity—the central hub for socializing and skirting work. The support staff girls kept a constant pot of coffee going, and the officers kept constant talk. Rusty shook hands with a few familiar old-timers while Stefan kept to the walls, wary and weary. He barely noticed when his partner pressed a mug into his hands, mumbling something vaguely along the lines of ‘thanks’.

It was one thing to live with the memory of the previous night, the way Cole curled up in his arms and his metered breathing and soft hair. But it was another thing entirely to know he can never have that again; even if he wanted it, even if _Cole_ wanted it, the case handed to him this morning was more than enough reminder that whatever _that_ was was amoral, wrong, worthy of the death penalty. Of course, this was an old demon of Stefan’s—not that he’d ever been with a man in the past, but this lingering emotion he tried desperately to oppress started when Cole came into his life months ago. Did that make him queer? He wasn’t sure, which scared him more than the thought of being so.

He stared into his coffee, drowning out whatever conversations were around him. He had a good idea what most of them were about, anyways.

 It didn’t take long for Rusty to get bored of rehashing the same ex-wife horror stories and tales of the glory days. He tapped Stefan on the shoulder, causing the younger man to jolt and splash coffee down his front.

“Augh… _Jesus,_ Bekowsky, sorry,” he stammered in a rare show of sympathy. “Didn’t mean to scare ya.”

Stefan sprung from his seat, grabbing napkins and patting himself dry. “It’s alright, no harm done.”

In the back of his mind, he cursed Rusty. His spotless white shirt would definitely be stained.

“Let’s just wrap up downstairs.”

The pair made their way back to the interview room. As expected, Bill had calmed down, his face returning to its normal color, the obscenities silenced.

Stefan sat with a sigh across from him, arranging his suit jacket carefully to hide the stain. “You’re not planning on pulling any stunts again, are you Mr. Schwartz?”

Bill shook his head, looking away.

“Good. Now, where were we?”

“I think we were at the part where Billy here outed himself as a sissy,” Rusty quipped with a hearty chuckle.

Stefan shot him a glare as Bill struggled against the cuffs.

“Ignore him, he’s just a little sore over you getting the drop on him,” Stefan started, “But I am going to cut to the chase here. You were seen last night talking to a man at Lenny’s. A man—presumably the same one—was found dead this morning in MacArthur Park with your phone number in his pocket and footprints on his chest.”

Bill didn’t respond, his eyes locked on the table in front of him.

“I think you came onto him, slipped him your number, he rang you, you two met up, you got scared, and killed him in a panic.”

Bill’s eyes fluttered closed.

“Did you even know his name, Bill?”

“No.”

“Voluntary manslaughter, that’s a gas chamber bounce, you know.”

“What was his name?”

“Juan. Juan Alvarez.”

“Juan,” Bill repeated, getting a far-off look in his eyes.

“Why’d you do it?” Stefan asked, feeling bile rising in his throat again.

Bill sat in silence for several minutes. Then he sighed.

“You ever love someone, detective?”

_It wasn’t real._

“No.”

“Then you won’t _get_ it. He…he threatened to tell my wife. I panicked I—I…I love her so much. I couldn’t put her through that. God,” he choked out, “I never told her that enough, you know? I never told her I love her.”

Stefan wanted to scream. Instead he stood from his seat, buttoning up his jacket.

“William Schwartz, I’m charging you with the murder of Juan Alvarez,” he deadpanned, turning to leave.

Rusty followed silently, for once, as Stefan asked the duty officer to transfer Bill into holding, then out into the sun-baked parking lot where Stefan lit a cigarette.

“Guy’s an idiot,” Rusty broke the silence, “no broad is worth the death penalty.”

Stefan simply nodded in response, watching the heat haze rising from the asphalt, wanting nothing more than to let the maw in his chest consume him and end it all.


End file.
